


How and What Now

by yaycoffee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, First Kiss, First Time, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Post S4, Rebuilding, Romance, Rosie doesn't exist, Sad John, Sherlock has feelings, Smut, ambiguous off-screen fixing of s4, but not for long, i really didn't mean for that to happen, it is what it is, like how did this end up explicit, oh tfp doesn't really exist here either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 02:47:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12003366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaycoffee/pseuds/yaycoffee
Summary: After John's life falls apart, he returns to Baker Street for good.  Sherlock has questions.  They find the answers together.





	How and What Now

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't really domestic fluff, but it is absolutely domestic. This is unbetaed, so--sorry for all the embarrassing mistakes. Also--eep! I can't believe I just wrote an explicit one-shot. I don't normally-- I didn't mean to; it just sort of happened.

How and What Now

 

John moves back to Baker Street on a Tuesday morning, early.  He didn’t ask.  He just—showed up. 

It’s been a little over one month since— _Since_.  Sherlock observes two large blue Ikea bags over one shoulder and a rolling suitcase with one small box perched on top, leaning precariously against the handle.  It threatens to topple as John stops briefly to say hello to Sherlock in the sitting room before unceremoniously turning to haul his things up the flight of stairs to his bedroom. 

Sherlock does his best to remain focused on the case notes he’s tacked up against the wallpaper, but his mind drifts—to the sounds of footsteps above him, creaking floorboards too long silent until now, to the only-just-vacant doorway and the floor there, dark and plain only moments ago.  He finds himself focused on the two wet, autumn-bright leaves John tracked in on his shoe, stuck there from the wet outside—from last night’s storm.  John brought them in unintentionally; they seem unremarkable, but they might as well be glowing for how they stand out against the dark of the floorboards. 

Sherlock’s mind is so full of questions he doesn’t know how to ask, and this makes finding the answers even more difficult.  It’s all to do with rather a lot of feelings, and so he loses the thread of the questions before he can get past the words like _why_ and _how_ and _when_ and _what_ _now_?  The voice in his head asks calmly, _how are we feeling about all of this?_  And because that particular voice in his head belongs to John, he does his best to try and answer.  And well, he knows it is undoubtedly problematic in some way or another, but he is— _pleased_.  He is pleased John has come home—back to Baker Street.  He _knows_ the circumstances are troubling.  But also— the circumstances are permanent.  The circumstances _have_ lead John back to Baker Street. And again, _why_ and _what now_?

He goes to the leaves and picks one of them up, pressing it between his thumb and forefinger.  It is still damp, folding in on itself some, but it is not brittle; it is completely intact.  And though he is well aware of the cell structure in a plane tree leaf, nearly ubiquitous in London, he takes it to his microscope anyway.  It is as he expected—cells in neat lines, chloroplasts giving way, changing for the seasons.

\---

Sherlock makes sandwiches.  He piles on cheese and mustard and pickle and lettuce, even slices a tomato to make a proper job of it.  He flicks the switch on the kettle and plops teabags into two mugs.  There is an unopened packet of crisps in the cupboard.  He pours a mound next to each sandwich, nicking one from the bag before he closes it. 

John has been up in his bedroom for hours, and the shuffling and squeaking from the ceiling stopped a while ago.  He thinks of calling out, of shouting, but he moves his feet instead.  He climbs—nineteen steps, these ones shallower than the ones from the front hall, likely more suited to John’s feet than his own.  He does his best not to trip on them and finds it easier to take two at a time.  He can count on one hand the number of times he’s actually made this particular journey.  _Why_?  _Why now_?

John’s door is open.  He’s on his back, eyes open to the ceiling, one arm bent, fitted behind his head.  He looks to be stargazing—but it is day, and the ceiling is opaque.

“I’ve made sandwiches,” Sherlock says.

John starts just a bit, blinking, turning his head to meet Sherlock’s eyes.  He clears his throat.  “Right.”  And then, “Ta.”  Through his nose, he inhales as he stands.  The side of his forearm brushes causally against Sherlock’s middle when he goes past him at the door, and John leads their way back to the kitchen, quiet in his socks.  Sherlock only takes one step at a time down—close enough to smell John’s soap and the warm scent of his skin and the wool from his jumper.  Sherlock wants to bathe in it.  _What now_?

In the kitchen, John wastes no time picking up the plates and setting them down at the table, shifting miscellaneous glassware and two days’ of newspapers out of the way for both of them.  Sherlock pours the now-boiling water into the waiting mugs and brings them to the table with milk and sugar.  Once sat, he eats, letting the crunch of vegetables and crisps fill the silence.

“Sherlock,” John says.  His eyes are glistening navy, bright even above circles deeper and darker than Sherlock has ever seen them.  He’s been losing weight.  The lines around his mouth seem deeper. 

Sherlock makes a small noise of acknowledgement, meeting John’s eyes, and he feels the press of his own lips against one another.

John clears his throat.  He opens his mouth to speak, but words seem to fail him.  He shakes his head, looking down at his plate as if he is searching for answers in the negative spaces between prawn cocktail-flavoured crisps.  “How?” he asks, voice breaking.  He takes a breath but doesn’t look up.

Sherlock wipes the tips of his fingers on a piece of kitchen roll and lays his forearm on the edge of the table, rolling it so his palm faces up.

John huffs, a small sound that could be stifled laughter or a sob—or both.  There is a beat, and then he is looking up again, steadfast and sure into Sherlock’s eyes as he fits his own hand inside, palm-to-palm as warm fingers wrap to cover Sherlock’s first knuckle.  It is only a moment before they both go back to their lunch.  There is nothing to say—no case more important, no trivia, no idle gossip—just the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of the pipes as the heating kicks on.

\---

They take a case—a relatively calm one with no human lives at stake and a lot of following-the-money.  It does end with a rather brilliant run through the London Zoo and everything back as it should be, and Sherlock gets to see John truly smile for the first time in—far too long.  His fringe is sweat-stuck to his forehead in places, and he catches Sherlock’s eyes with a twinkle in his own and after they briefly speak with the police and zoo security. John lets his hand linger at Sherlock’s back as they begin the short walk home.

“I’m starting with Bart’s on Wednesday,” John says as he removes his coat and scarf.  “Mike put in a good word.”

“Oh,” Sherlock replies, raising an eyebrow as he fits his own coat onto its hook.

“Yeah.  Decided to give A&E a go.  Part time—one night and one day shift per week.”

“Good, John,” Sherlock says, genuinely happy for him.  And genuinely happy at the implication of part time work; John still wants to work with him, too.  His hand reaches out to find the top of John’s arm, where he gives it a squeeze.  He doesn’t know why, but this is how it’s becoming now. 

John lifts a hand to Sherlock’s and smiles.  “Tea? Beer?”

“Beer,” Sherlock says, and John goes to the kitchen.  Sherlock brings the fire to life and sits in his chair.

John returns with two bottles, handing one to Sherlock as he sits across from him.  Once settled, John clinks the necks together, meeting Sherlock’s eye with a wink as they each sip.  John’s feet stretch toward Sherlock, and Sherlock, in turn, stretches his out as well.  After only a minute, John presses his ankle against Sherlock’s, and the fire, warm against his side, is making the blonde in John’s hair light up gold. 

“I can do it, you know,” John says after they’ve got through nearly half of their beer.

“Hm?” Sherlock asks.

“A normal case.  I know that I’ve been—  That it’s been— but, yeah.  We can do a real one next time.”  He shifts forward a bit and takes a breath.  “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t ready.”

Sherlock breathes, tilts his head as he takes a sip from his bottle. 

“All right,” he says.  “A real one next time.”

\---

It is indeed a real one next time.  Client.  Kidnapping.  Jealous ex-lover.  If ever there was a case tailor-made to test John Watson’s mental health, this would be the one.  In the end, as usual, John was right.  He was ready.  The child was returned mostly unharmed (physically, anyway), and the jealous ex-lover will spend the next twenty years rotting in a jail cell.  A job well-done.

They return to Baker Street exhausted and filthy.  Sherlock toes off his shoes immediately, wrenching the sewer-damp socks from his feet.  He strips the rest of his muddy clothes in the bedroom, and he hears the hiss of the shower starting in the bathroom.  He’ll give John first go.  As he waits, he is fully aware of how dirty he is.  He considers standing, but his legs don’t want to do that anymore.  So, wearing only his underwear, he carefully places himself on top of the very edge of his duvet, avoiding his pillows and trying his level best not to breathe in too deeply.  He can smell his _own_ hair.

He starts awake at the feeling of a hand on the back of his shoulder.  He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that John is standing over him, radiating warmth and smelling of soap and toothpaste, but he opens them anyway.  Sherlock is too tired to stop himself from looking, tracing the lines of John’s neck and shoulders, chest lightly dusted with hair, the line of coarser hair, a bit darker, that is swallowed eventually by a low-slung towel. 

John doesn’t lift his hand from Sherlock’s back, doesn’t stop his fingers from tracing one of Sherlock’s largest scars.  He follows the raised line of it from shoulder to mid-spine before flattening his hand to run it lightly over the whole thing.  Sherlock swallows and looks into John’s face, unprepared for the pain he sees there.

“Shower’s free,” John says, sitting on the bed next to him.  To break the tension a bit, he sniffs loudly in Sherlock’s general direction, making a face.  “Ugh—get _in there_ , would you?”

Sherlock laughs, shaking his disgusting hair out under John’s nose as he stands and goes.

When he returns to his bedroom, John is still on his bed. Only now, he is face down and snoring softly into a pillow.  His towel has come loose, revealing the very top of his buttocks, and Sherlock can’t help but stare for a moment.  _What now_?  He turns around twice, aimless, wondering if he should grab some pajamas and leave, perhaps kip on the sofa.  But because he doesn’t _want_ to leave or kip on the sofa, he decides on sitting instead.  He perches himself on the very edge of the bed, back ramrod straight, still unsure about exactly what is the right thing to do.

John’s eyes open immediately, and Sherlock feels like he’s been caught.  His breathing goes rapid as he fights every instinct he has to flee.  But John smiles—the softest, most open thing—and he rolls back off of his belly, turning to face him.  Then, John reaches for Sherlock’s arm, tugging him in gently, and Sherlock relaxes into it, doesn’t resist, and John doesn’t let go.  As he lies back, Sherlock’s own towel shifts almost completely open as faces John a bit more fully.  He considers righting it, but leaves it.  He honestly has nothing he wants to hide.  _What now_?

“I told you,” John says, thumb brushing at a spot on Sherlock’s arm, just under his shoulder.  “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t ready.”  He leans closer, and Sherlock takes a moment to watch his face slacken, lips parted, eyes on his eyes before fluttering closed, and Sherlock leans in, too, pressing his lips to John’s.

John’s breaths puff from his nostrils onto Sherlock’s cheeks, and Sherlock has every answer to any question he has ever asked.  He takes John’s upper lip between both of his, where John captures his lower lip with his own.  John’s hair is still damp under his fingers, where he is rubbing at his temples and then his nape, holding him there just as John is doing the same.  He pulls away to trace Sherlock’s cheekbones and eyebrows with his thumbs, to trail his nose against Sherlock’s nose, to run his lips over his closed eyelids. 

He finds Sherlock’s mouth again, and the tip of John’s tongue makes everything better—wet and slick, easier to slide the sensitive inside bits together.  Sherlock needs to taste him, so he does, tongue sliding against John’s tongue, slow and languid, pulling back to run behind a lip and then back in.  He could drown like this.  He would enjoy it. 

Sherlock remembers his own hands when he feels John’s slide from his neck around his back, pressing them closer, flinging their towels to the floor, aligning their bodies.  Sherlock mirrors him, arms around his back before trailing his fingers down the line of his spine to the crease of his buttocks.  He presses a bit into the warmth there, at the very base of his spine, and John moans into his mouth as he wraps a leg around Sherlock, pulling their groins together. Sherlock strokes that spot again, needing more pressure from John’s body, needing that sound from John’s mouth, wondering how he has ever lived without hearing it before. 

John prays and curses and asks Sherlock if he _knows what he’s doing to him_ as he presses closer, giving Sherlock some relief by dragging his belly against him as he straddles him fully, and good God, now it is Sherlock’s turn to moan.  John bends to suck on his neck, and Sherlock bares even more of it for him as he lets his hands roam over shoulders and collar bone, through the hair covering his pectoral muscles and pressing into perfect nipples.  John slides their bodies together in a slow rhythm as he traces the shallow spaces between Sherlock’s ribs, dips into his naval, massages into his flanks. 

Sherlock is on fire, needing more.  He lets fingers find that spot at the base of John’s spine again, delighted at the feeling down his own spine as John keens.  And then, he goes lower. 

“ _Yes_ ,” John says.  _Yes_.  _Yes_.  And with his lips against Sherlock’s lips, he asks, fumbling, “Do you have?  I’ve never—but I want.  _Need_ ,” and he presses himself back into Sherlock’s fingers and then forward against Sherlock’s erection, and Sherlock’s vision sparks with pleasure.  He would do anything, _anything_ John asked of him.  Now—or ever.  Forever.

Sherlock forces his hand away from John’s skin long enough to open the nightstand drawer.  “Lube and condoms,” he manages to breathe, and he feels as though his heated body is doused in ice for the few seconds John shifts off him to find what they need.  It gives Sherlock a minute to compose himself a bit, to focus.  It has been a very long time since he’s done anything like this—and never _this_.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Sherlock says, eyes fixed to where John is tearing at the foil. 

“I really don’t,” John says.  And then, voice a low rumble that makes Sherlock shiver, “We’ll bloody well figure it out.”

Sherlock gasps at the feeling of John’s fingers on him as he rolls the condom down, as he strokes him gently, slicking him with lubricant. 

John kisses him, taking his hand and squeezing lubricant onto it.  Sherlock figures it out.  He goes slowly, letting John guide him, savoring the feel of John’s body, the taste and smell of his skin, the sounds he’s making.  He’s addicted to this, to becoming more and more surrounded, engulfed, swallowed up by John.

With a kiss, John eases Sherlock’s hand away, lacing their fingers together. 

“I love you, you know,” John says, meeting his eyes, making sure he has every bit of Sherlock’s focus.  “I haven’t actually said.”

Sherlock lifts their joined hands to his lips, kissing the top of John’s.  “I love you, too.” 

And then, John surrounds him—slowly, _completely_ —and Sherlock has to force his eyes open out of the bliss, to watch the face above his, so familiar and so brand new.  He lifts a hand to it, running a thumb over John’s lips, and John kisses the pad, and then, with a smile, he begins to move.  This is better than any drug, better than any case, better than anything he has ever done.

At first, they stick to the languid pace they’d been keeping, learning each other, breathing, holding steady.  Sherlock’s hands find the strong muscles of John’s thighs, running over them from knee to buttocks, letting his fingers linger and press into that spot before stroking over their solid length again.  On a downward thrust, John shifts his angle just a bit, and something happens; John is swearing and moaning, going harder and faster, and Sherlock is rocking, thrusting, matching John’s rhythm, grabbing fistfuls of John’s skin, holding on, feeling pleasure spark over every inch of his body, so intense he doesn’t know what to do with it all.  He needs more, and John is there, urging him on with words of love and profanity and those sounds, those _sounds_.  John’s back arches as he cries out, spasming and spilling, and that is all it takes.  Sherlock can’t help but follow, vision whiting out as he comes, and John’s name is the only word he remembers.

John collapses onto his chest, breaths hot and wet against his neck.  Sherlock gasps, getting his breath back as well.  He looks up to John’s perfect face, sweaty and open and plastered with the cheekiest grin he’s ever seen.  He can’t even imagine what his own face must be doing.  He can’t be remotely bothered to figure it out.  He leans forward, and John meets him with a sloppy, open mouthed kiss.  John slides off of him with a quiet groan.  Sherlock kisses him again.

John’s hands are on his face as he smiles at Sherlock some more, and Sherlock says, “That was—”

“I know,” John replies.  “It really was.”

“Good,” Sherlock says.  “Really good.”

“I meant it,” John says, face going more serious.  He strokes Sherlock’s face, brushing the fringe off his forehead and scratching lightly at his temples.  “I love you.”

“I meant it, too,” Sherlock says, bringing his own hand to trace John’s lips and cheek, lighting at his nape.  “And, I will mean it.  Forever.”

There is no question.

~End~

 

 

 

 


End file.
